


you're my horizon, you'll always paint my sky

by ohprongs



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: AU, F/F, art student!clary, clizzy au, for tumblr anon, human!AU, it's just fluff without plot really, life model!izzy, nothing much happens tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:36:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohprongs/pseuds/ohprongs
Summary: “This is Isabelle,” Trelawney says. “She’s modelling for you today.”Isabelle is gorgeous. Waves of dark brown hair fall in a perfect cascade over the silk of her robe, framing her face - big brown eyes, a beautiful smile. Her make up is a work of art in itself, and Clary’s never found the phrase wife goals or life goals so relatable.And then -God. Isabelle takes her robe off.(or, modern clizzy au ft. art student clary and life model izzy)





	

**Author's Note:**

> the prompt was sitting in my inbox staring at me disapprovingly so i just!! had!! to write it
> 
> title from _palace_ by hayley kiyoko

****Whoever had decided to schedule Clary’s classes for her first semester clearly hated her. Why else would she have three 9ams on consecutive days, and a block of four hour classes from morning over lunch time on a Monday?

She stumbles over the threshold of the studio entrance, grasping her to-go cup of coffee (extra shot of espresso) tightly in one hand and just about keeping hold of her box of paints in the other. Her old brown satchel is slung across her body, sitting over her burgundy peacoat. It kind of clashes with her hair, but she feels very autumnal.

Clary greets some of her classmates, following them into the studio. It’s bitingly cold outside, but there’s the usual wave of heat that greets them on entering the life drawing room.

Well, it’s not called that officially. But Clary is usually squirrelled away in her own personal studio space, and only ever uses this particular room for their mandatory life drawing classes, so that’s what it’s named in her head.

“Morning,” the teacher greets. She was one of the women who’d interviewed Clary before she’d got into the Brooklyn Academy of Art; she’d seen potential in the scribblings Clary had accidentally let slip out of her portfolio folder, rather than the landscapes Clary had been intending to show. She’d said something about the runic symbols Clary had drawn giving her an ache for a bone-deep story of old, a half-remembered legend. Something singing in the blood, but now long-lost. 

She happened to be one of Clary’s more fanciful lecturers. Simon had waited for her after class one time and had given the lecturer the moniker Professor Trelawney, and it stuck, at least between the two of them.

The teacher gives them a general introduction to the purpose of the class as they all set up - easels ready, they each pull out their preferred medium of working - and then introduces the model. She gestures to one of the internal doors and holy crap -

In walks a goddess.

Clary reckons she might still be dreaming. She pinches herself a couple of times to make sure, then takes a giant slurp of her coffee to wake her up even more. 

“This is Isabelle,” Trelawney says. “She’s modelling for you today.”

Isabelle is _gorgeous_. Waves of dark brown hair fall in a perfect cascade over the silk of her robe, framing her face - big brown eyes, a beautiful smile. Her make up is a work of art in itself, and Clary’s never found the phrase _wife goals or life goals_ so relatable.

And then -

 _God_. Isabelle takes her robe off. Clary’s mouth goes dry and she suddenly feels very hot all over. 

Avoiding everyone’s eye (not that anyone would really be looking, but if she locks gazes with anyone she thinks she might end up giving away her sudden and embarrassingly quick descent into a crush) Clary fiddles with her paints. Then she remembers she needs to sketch an outline first, picks up a pencil, catches sight of Izzy draping herself over the chaise longue in front of all the artists, and drops the pencil. It bounces to the ground with a loud clatter, and when Clary stands up, blood rushing to her face, she realises Isabelle is looking at her, brow quirked. 

Clary smiles awkwardly. Isabelle keeps her eyes on Clary as she tosses back her head, exposing the curve of her neck, and is that -? It seems like amusement in her gaze.

It’s 9am and Clary hasn’t had enough coffee to make it through this.

∞

“Hey,” says a voice. 

Clary’s one of the last to leave the studio, staying behind to scrub the colour stains from her skin. No matter how hard she tries, she always ends up with paint everywhere, usually in places she can’t see - and then she has to rely on the kindness of her friends to point it out. Simon’s loyal to a fault, but he doesn’t always notice it himself, and Maureen finds it hilarious to leave Clary wandering around looking like a Jackson Pollock.

“Hi,” Clary says, the response coming automatically, and then she looks around for the source of the voice. “Isabelle?” 

Her mouth is probably gaping unattractively, but it’s - well. Unexpected. Isabelle’s still here. 

“Are you lost?” is the next thing Clary says. 

Isabelle lifts an eyebrow. “I’m in the Alicante building, right?” 

Clary nods. “I mean, do you need help getting off campus? I don’t - do you go here?”

“No,” Isabelle says, “I study pathology.”

Clary can’t help wrinkling her nose. “Like, dead people, CSI pathology?”  

Isabelle smiles. “Yeah.” She tilts her head. "I get my hands on lots of bodies.” Clary blinks. “If you could walk me back to the main exit off campus, I’d be very grateful.”

“Sure,” Clary agrees, without missing a beat. She doesn’t know how she’s going to make it through an entire walk - which will last at least ten minutes - with Isabelle without fainting, but she’ll try. Luke’s always telling her she’s a trouper. “Did Trelawney not offer to take you?”

“Trelawney?” Isabelle follows Clary out of the door. 

“The lecturer,” Clary amends. “My friend says she reminds him of the professor in Harry Potter.”

Isabelle nods. “Well, she did offer. But I told her I wanted to wait.”

“What for?” Clary asks. It almost seems like - but no. Why would Isabelle be hanging back for Clary?

Isabelle doesn’t answer. Instead, she says, “You can call me Izzy, by the way.”

“Okay.” Clary realises she hasn’t introduced herself and adds, “I’m Clary.”

“Nice to meet you,” Izzy says. Her hand reaches up, finger tips brushing one of the strands of Clary’s hair that have escaped her ponytail. “You have paint in your hair.”

“Oh -” Clary yanks at her hair, finding her skin comes away daubed with violet. “Thanks. I’m a mess.” She clears her throat and changes the subject. “Have you done life modelling before?”

“You’re lovely,” Izzy says, which Clary doesn’t quite know what to make of, and then, “a couple of times. The first time one was a dare - my brother’s boyfriend is wicked when it comes to spin the bottle - but I actually kind of liked it.” She shrugs. “I’m very confident in my body.”

Clary nods. “You should be.” Then she realises what she just said and opens, then closes, her mouth. “I mean. You know, because body positivity is a good thing?”

Izzy laughs. “Thanks,” she smiles. “Have you?”

Clary shakes her head. “‘Draw me like one of your Brooklyn girls’ doesn’t have quite the same ring to it,” she says. “I’m quite glad all the bodies I’m seeing are alive, though,” she adds.

Izzy grins. “You’re just like my brothers - pathetically squeamish,” she teases. “Dead bodies are okay once you get used to them. No back chat, for one thing.”

“Life models don’t talk either,” Clary points out. “It’s an exercise in staying still.”

Izzy considers this. “Fair.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “By the way, if you ever need anyone to model for you, I’m available.”

Clary nods. “I’ll let Trelawney know you’re up for coming again,” she says, pulling out her phone to make a reminder.

Izzy smiles at her. “I meant, like…a private practice,” she says. 

Clary blushes to her roots. “Oh,” she gets out eloquently. “Right.”

“I like this,” Izzy says, tapping the case on Clary’s phone. It’s a lesbian pride flag design, and from Izzy’s soft expression she knows exactly what it is.

“Can I maybe get your number?” asks Clary. “We could arrange a time to…practice.” Then she winces. “That was way more suggestive than I meant it to be."

Izzy procures her phone from somewhere (honestly, how does she fit pockets into those tight pants?). “Sure, lets swap. I’m free now, if you want to do something?”

Clary bites her lip. She has a class on the history of sculpture in half an hour, but who is she to pass up an offer like that from a pretty girl?

“Coffee?” she asks, and then realises she’ll probably be suffering a major caffeine crash later on. But fuck it, ‘cause Izzy loops her arm through Clary’s.

“Perfect,” she says, and in that moment, Clary entirely agrees.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](http://lesbianclaryfairchilds.tumblr.com) <3


End file.
